Morning Edition
by calla lilly rose
Summary: Mike, a reporter from the local newspaper, is sent on assignment to cover the return of the missing kids involved in last week's murder of Bob Sheldon. At first, it's typical. However, Mike soon realizes there's more here than just that story.


A/N All rights to _The Outsiders _belong to SE Hinton.

**Morning Edition**

**XXX**

The phone ringing woke me up. I groaned, still feeling the two shots I'd drunk a few hours ago, but rolled over and picked up the receiver anyway.

"Hullo?"

_"Mike? Good, you're awake. Listen, something's going on down at Tulsa General... I want you and Justin to swing out there and get me a scoop. Have hardcopy on my desk by two so I can get it in print before the presses start."_

I rubbed my face. Sure, he paid well, but sometimes I hated my boss. "Can you at least give me a clue as to what I'm scooping?"

_"Those kids that disappeared last week, the ones wanted for murder? Yeah, well, they're back in town. All I'm getting is static about some fire and some little kids. Go find me the story. Make it good. I want mamma's crying over their Cheerios by sunup. Okay? Good. Now, go get 'em!"_

The sound of the line going dead was heard and finally I hung up. I looked at the clock on the wall and waited for my eyes to focus. Damn, nearly eleven at night. I'd been up since three this morning, covering a story out in the Osage Indian reservation and was dead on my feet. Hence the two shots of bourbon to help dull my senses and carry me off to lala land. But noooooo, now I had to pick up Justin and go hang out in the hospital for a story on some kids. As I got my coat and shoved my shoes on, I swore some, hoping this would be worth it.

The hospital ain't my ideal place to hang out at. Sick people give me the willies. All that puking and bleeding going on, not to mention strangers coughing all over the place. Every time I have to go there for a story, I end up needing a penicillin shot within a week. I smiled, remembering that I'd charged it to the boss last time; I still don't think he knows it.

Justin was waiting when I got to his apartment, two cameras around his neck all ready and his bag by his side most likely containing one or two more. "I take it Bossman called you too?" I muttered.

"Yeah, but what can I say. It's the life." He smiled. While I liked Justin – he's the best photographer I've worked with in my fifteen odd years of working at the paper, I hated his attitude. Not really, but hell, I was tired. I simply looked at him as he got settled in my passenger seat.

"Cut the crap," I muttered. "I'm tired."

He said nothing for a while, watching the scenery pass by as I drove to the hospital.

"These the kids involved in that East Side murder a week ago?" he finally asked.

"Yup."

"Think they're gonna confess?"

"Well, Justin, that's what we're gonna find out." I pulled into the parking lot, noticing the additional abundance of cop cars parked everywhere. I got my press badge from the glove box and attached it to my shirt, then got out; Justin clanging along beside me.

It wasn't hard to find the source of the attention – and hence the article; two cops were standing not far behind some kid in a chair who looked like he'd been the wiener in a wiener roast. I nudged Justin, who started taking shots of the kid. Unfortunately, I wasn't the first there, but it was obvious the kid had just started talking.

"... I heard the kids screaming..."

"_When you say kids, how many?"_

"_And were they girls or boys?"_

"I don't know how many, maybe five or so... we didn't have time to count..."

"_Were they on fire like the rest of the building?"_

"No," he answered.

I felt my adrenaline starting to rush. The kid was trying to keep the questions with the questioners, his eyes spinning in the process. Like a lamb to the slaughter... someone would get a confession out of him soon.

"... there were both boys and girls... and they weren't on..."

"_Was the fire in the room they were in?"_

"No.... not yet..."

"_How long before the room was engulfed? That wood was dry, it couldn't have taken long."_

"I dunno, a few minutes maybe...."

"_You have a lot of soot on you, how long were _you_ in the fire?"_

"I'm not sure..."

As the kid did his best to keep up, I caught sight of Justin, snapping pictures nearby. What he didn't see was a lanky kid with slicked back hair who'd lifted one of his cameras. Only, he wasn't trying to hide it. Instead, he was taking pictures of the kid too – but not just the kid. Next to the kid sat a young man, definitely in his late teens or early twenties but with age starting to creep up on him earlier than usual. He was big; defined muscles and chiseled features, but with enough worry lines to grid a map. My reporter instincts dinged. While the younger soot-streaked kid was certainly the object of the story, I had a feeling there was another feature here too. I smiled, tasting victory.

I looked around; there were no parents nearby. The lanky kid who'd taken Justin's camera had now lifted someone's hat, the press badge pinned to it. I motioned to Justin to get a shot of him - which he did, suddenly upset as he recognized his own camera in the kid's hands.

"Hey, that's my..."

"Leave it for now...." I mumbled low. "If he were gonna keep it, it'd be gone by now. Besides, he's doing you a favor, getting some good shots in too."

Justin looked pissed, but since I was technically the senior of us, he had to listen. Besides, if the kid took the camera, we'd just send the bill to the boss anyway.

"How do your parents feel about all this?" I asked, testing the water.

"They're ...dead. Darry's my guardian." He looked at the older guy next to him.

Ahh.... dead parents... Darry.... now, who is Darry? What's his story? This would take some finesse.

"_Are the burned boy's parents here?" _

The kid looked around. "No."

"_How bout that other kid, the third guy helping you? His parents here?"_

"Dallas's parents? No, they ain't..."

"_Who started the fire?"_

"I'm not sure how..."

"_Was it intentional to throw the police off your track?"_

"No!" He looked at the muscled guy at his side, who had to have seen the same anxious look I saw in the kid's face. Suddenly, he stood up, towering over the kid in the chair.

"He's bout had enough. Tone it down or the questions stop completely!"

Whoa. From the corner of my eye, I noticed the lanky kid stop his antics and turn toward the bigger guy, fire sparking in his gaze, ready to back him up if needed.

"And who are you, sir?" asked one of the reporters. I had a feeling I already knew the name, but that wouldn't be enough.

"Darrel Curtis; Ponyboy's guardian. Now cut back on the questions or we're through."

"How long have you been his guardian?" I asked carefully, not wanting to spook either of them.

It was obvious the kid was exhausted. When Justin and I first showed up, he was sitting tall in the chair. Now he was slouching; his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes weary after his guardian tried to shut us up. Tried. But what he failed to realize was, reporters never give up. Where there's a story, there's a will – and a way.

"Since our parents died. Last December." Ponyboy mumbled, his voice strained. Ah-ha! I could hear sniffles at dawn already.

"You must be his uncle?" I tossed out the bated hook, asking the big guy who had settled back in his seat, patting Ponyboy on the knee.

"Oldest brother." Darrel answered simply. And where there's an oldest ... there had to be a middle brother. Suddenly the lanky kid's presence – and his sudden change in stance when Darrel stood up - made sense.

"And he takes care of you and your other brotherrrrr ...."

I waited for him to fill in the blank, which he did in record time.

"Sodapop."

Damn, this was too easy. Some of my fellow reporters realized the story of the fire was done and started to pack it in and leave. _Good,_ I thought. Everyone would have that story. Kids involved in last week's murder returns, blah blah blah. This, however, was something different – the human interest behind it all, a scoop I didn't want to share. _Now's my chance for the real story._

I smiled, a reassuring smile designed to keep the talk going. "It must be hard for you, taking care of your family. What line of work are you in Darrel?"

"Construction."

"That's just one of his jobs, but it ain't just Darry taking on all the burden. I work at the DX, as a mechanic." The smiling Sodapop announced as he sat down, setting Justin's camera in the seat next to him - which Justin then promptly reached over and re-took possession of.

I noticed Darrel had a change of expression, as if that was something he'd rather Sodapop not have said, but said nothing to him about it.

"So your brother adopted you?"

"No, he's our guardian." Sodapop explained with a laugh. "We live with him."

"So you work at the DX and go to school too? That's a hard life."

Sodapop's expression froze, the smile forced. His brother's both blinked and looked away at the same time. I recognized it – embarrassment mixed with a touch of shame.

"No, I quit school."

"Well," I said, feeling the need to change direction, "for having been in a harrowing situation, Ponyboy, you physically seem to be doing well. Are you in athletics at school?"

Ponyboy's face seemed to lighten a little. "I run track."

"You must be good. When you get to high school, I bet you'll make the team."

Now all three of their faces lifted some.

"He's already in high school, ain't ya, smartie?" Sodapop teased, shoving Ponyboy a little. The kid smiled. Even through the soot and ash on his face, I could see his cheeks flush a bit as he looked away.

"Already? How old are you, Ponyboy?"

"Fourteen. I was bumped up a grade a year or so back."

"He's been on the honor roll every reporting period, and I'm hoping he can earn a scholarship either athletically or academically by the time he graduates."

The pride in Darrel's voice was plain as day. Which reminded me, I didn't have much time to get this story done. I sighed. The cops were starting to leave too, and Justin had long ago stopped taking pictures. I stood up, shaking Darrel, Sodapop and Ponyboy's hands.

"Thanks, all of you. I know this has been one horrifying night, especially for you, Ponyboy. Honestly though, and I'm saying this not as a reporter, but as a person – I hope your friends Johnny and Dallas get well soon." I meant it. Johnny because he was just a kid, Dallas because he keeps giving us juicy news to report on.

"Thanks."

I started to leave, then turned around. "Um, one last thing Ponyboy, what would you do right now if you could do anything you wanted?"

I expected something along the lines of - turning back time, changing the outcome of the night … but instead, the kid yawned and simply said -

"Take a bath."

I grinned. Yeah, he's a teenager, alright. But... he was different too. Justin followed me out and collapsed in my car, not bothering to be as careful with his cameras as he usually was.

"That... was exhausting. But he didn't confess! I thought he would!"

"That kid didn't do squat. I've got the copies at my desk, been studying them since yesterday for some story on this. That Valance girl had already given a statement to the police about how the kid was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and her buddies who were there confirmed it. The kids coming back was just a footnote to the facts every reporter in town either already has or could easily get."

"So there ain't a story then? You mean I just wasted a few hours of my life when I could have been sleeping?"

I grinned.

"Uh-oh. I know that look. You have a story, don't you? A good one, too."

"Justin, get that film developed and have the pic's on the bosses desk as quick as you can. Get the best shots of the brothers that you can find. Not when they're looking all hard-ass, either, but lost in thought sort of. I know you have to have a few. Check the roll Sodapop took too. I want to see what's there."

I parked my car at the office; Justin trudged off to the dark room while I headed to my desk. I compiled my notes, checked the statements already given, and even went back to the microfiche archives to get anything I could on the elder Curtises. I wanted to know everything, but there wasn't much. All I had was a last name and the month... December. Jillian, the microfiche manager, helped me find it. I was disappointed, it was just a small paragraph with no follow up.

_**Failed Lights, Rail Road Cross Bar Kills Two: **__A late night accident where the automatic lights and cross-bar motion failed to operate as a train approached was to blame for the deaths of Darrel and Beverly Curtis. They were killed instantly when their vehicle crossed the unguarded tracks, directly into the path of the oncoming west-bound train. The conductor had no time to slow down and slammed into them broadside, ripping the car in half. An investigation as to the cause of the failure is underway. They leave behind three children._

But time... time was my enemy here. I worked hard, putting every fact and niblet of information I could into the half-dozen articles I came up with. Finally I was done. It was nearly two and I was out of time. I headed to the boss's office where he was waiting - I swear the man never sleeps - and turned them all in. He read them, smiling, nodding, and drumming his finger on the desk – all of which only made me more anxious.

"Well?" I asked as he sat the last one down.

He said nothing, just got up and went to the door. "COPY!" he screamed, the copy editor appearing out of nowhere. "Get these in the morning's edition. I don't care how you do it, just get it done."

"All of them?" I asked, dumbfounded. I expected maybe one or two, but not all of them to make it into the morning's edition.

"Mikey, my boy... that's gold what you just wrote. By God, I can hear the women sobbing now. It's all there; young boy becomes hero, family struggles to move on in the face of tragedy, socioeconomic clashes in today's youth..."

He went on and on, framing each story with his hands outstretched in thin air. He had that look on his face, the same look I felt when the stories fell in my lap. Justin handed over the pictures and the three of us poured over them, picking out the ones to go with the stories. Finally, the boss stood, pulling his pants up higher and nodded triumphantly.

"Good job, Mike. You too, Justin. Now, both of you go home and get some sleep. It looks like you've both been awake for days."

I looked at him, saying nothing, then grabbed my things and headed out of his office. Justin following along behind me. I drove him back to his apartment and waved goodbye to him, then somehow made it back to my place as well.

I looked at the bottle of bourbon on the counter then shook my head. I was too tired to need help sleeping. In fact, I don't even remember making it back to my bed.

Life as a reporter sucked at times. But, as Justin said... what can I say? It's the life.

XXX

Calla Lily Rose


End file.
